Vol. 42 No. 4 · 20 February 2020 The lads come on and on Kevin Brazil T L A S S: R E 20-C G L edited by Jeremy Mulderig. Chicago, 274 pp., £22.50, May 2018, 978 0 226 54141 9 Samuel Steward began to write his autobiography in 1978, at the age of 69, he’d had sex more than four thousand times with more than eight hundred men. Each B encounter was carefully recorded in his ‘Stud File’, an alphabetical card index which occasionally included physical mementos. There were records for Lord Alfred Douglas, Steward’s lips landing ‘where Oscar’s had been’; for Thornton Wilder, who lasted ‘ninety seconds and a dozen strokes’; and the 18-year-old companion of the ageing André Gide, oered up in a bedroom lit only by a ‘frilly little pink tulip lamp’. The record for Rudolph Valentino included a swatch of his pubic hair. There were records for the entire basketball team at Steward’s high school, some of the university students he’d taught, many of the sailors stationed at the Great Lakes Naval Training Station in the 1940s and 1950s, and clients of the tattoo parlours he set up in the 1960s. The Stud File was valuable evidence for Alfred Kinsey, for whom Steward performed a sadomasochistic encounter that was recorded on lm. It also provided material for the pornographic stories Steward published under the pseudonym Phil Andros. He wrote more than twenty books in all, ranging from a social history of tattooing to murder mysteries featuring Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas as amateur detectives in Paris, but never got round to nishing his autobiography before his death in 1993. His manuscript was culled to produce a series of disjointed episodes published as Chapters from an Autobiography in 1981, and Jeremy Mulderig has now put Steward’s unpublished manuscript together with the published episodes to produce The Lost Autobiography. Steward was born in 1909 in Woodseld, Ohio, a small town close to the foothills of the Appalachians. As a boy he witnessed the Ku Klux Klan kidnap in broad daylight the father of Woodseld’s only black family, a chiropractor; the man’s wife and children disappeared the next day. Cross burnings and Klan conclaves were common. His mother died when he was six; his father was addicted to alcohol and prescription drugs, and le Steward and his sister, Virginia, to be raised by their grandmother and two maiden aunts, who ran a boarding house. The women were strict Methodists, devoted to Steward’s education and intolerant of any discussion of sex. His tripartite sexual awakening was provided by sex education lms shown in school; by Bill Shafer, a friend Steward memorialised by coining ‘shafering’ as a word for masturbation; and by a copy of Havelock Ellis’s Sexual Inversion le behind in the boarding house by a travelling salesman. Ellis’s book reassured him that he was not alone in a world full of heterosexuals, and functioned as a rich ‘manual of the erotic’ throughout his teenage years. Woodseld provided plenty of opportunities. Direct propositions to members of the basketball and track teams, or to local toughs, were mostly successful, and the clock tower, graveyard and Methodist church provided convenient venues. (His forthrightness seems not to have caused him much trouble, except for the occasion when he was discovered by his father to have le a note inviting a boarding house guest to come and ‘meat’ him sometime.) When his aunts moved their business to Columbus, Ohio in 1927, so that Steward and his sister could attend Ohio State University, the city oered experiences he recorded in Housmanesque poetry: ‘’Tis only right you look to wed/Now you are grown and gone/And I may comfort me to think/The lads come on and on.’ The sexual availability of ostensibly heterosexual young men was as remarkable as Steward’s appetite – he doesn’t record being attacked, or even that his targets recoiled from his advances. This he put down to Midwestern ignorance of homosexuality: ‘The fundamentalist mind made two breathtaking leaps of illogic: people did not do such things, and therefore such things must be non-existent.’ Only when ‘the audience grew more sophisticated did our danger (the knowledge of our actual existence) and our long ordeal begin once more’. Steward visited Greenwich Village, the self-appointed centre of American gay life in the 1930s, but he felt little need to move there, the much mythologised rite recorded in most queer autobiographies then and now. Given Steward’s three hundred sexual encounters in Ohio, one wonders whether these generations of rural gay émigrés were trying hard enough. Columbus provided boys and bohemia, and Steward went on to study for a PhD at Ohio State in which he ‘uncovered’ the homosexuality of Cardinal Newman. He also met the poet Ben Musser, who got his own card in the Stud File and subsidised the publication of Steward’s rst collection of short stories, Pan and the Firebird (1930). Aer nishing his doctorate, he shuttled between teaching jobs in West Virginia, Washington State and Montana, at the same time assiduously cultivating his ‘telequeen network’ of mostly queer literary correspondents and holiday hosts: Stein and Toklas, Gide and Wilder, Carl van Vechten, Thomas Mann and Paul Cadmus. For Steward, a life in letters compensated (partly) for the one restrained by law and social convention. And by syphilis, picked up from a railway porter and necessitating a period of celibacy. The cure involved weekly injections of arsenic for months on end, as well as mercury rubbed into his armpits. Side eects included ulcers and purpura. Nothing dates his autobiography to 1978 more clearly than his breezy conclusion that while syphilis wasn’t especially traumatising, ‘a great deal more care might be taken nowadays in physical relationships if penicillin did not exist.’ Aids soon emerged to make his autobiography a document of an irreversibly lost way of sexual life. A trip to Europe in 1937 allowed Steward to meet many of his correspondents. Aer a ying visit to Housman’s rooms in Cambridge (‘to stand silently weeping, with chills along my spine’), his rst stop was Lord Alfred Douglas’s stuy Regency at in Brighton. Douglas’s face had suered ‘the dreadful slackening of esh that comes with age’, but neither that, nor Douglas’s strict and rabidly antisemitic Catholicism, could prevent gin and bitters doing its work on both parties; the most memorable thing about the sex was that all Douglas could oer was a ‘shafering’ since that was all he’d ever done to Wilde. From Brighton he went to Paris to meet Gide, who thoroughly disapproved of the dreadful Douglas but was more preoccupied with Europe’s present, having recently returned from the Paris Exhibition, where the Soviet and Nazi pavilions had been provocatively placed opposite each other. Thomas Mann, whom Steward met in Zurich, oered something more memorable than sex: a confession, as he put his arm around Steward’s shoulder, that ‘it is through persons like you ... that I hope to keep on living.’ ‘Of all the remembered gestures in my life,’ Steward wrote, ‘that one is perhaps the most treasured.’ By far the most signicant friends Steward made through letter-writing were Stein and Toklas (a collection of their letters was published in 1977), who were living in Bilignin near Lyon. They seemed as taken with Steward as he was with them; Stein praised his rst novel, Angels on the Bough (1936), and gave advice: ‘You can’t write and teach ... You teach all day and then that word-nding part of your brain is worn out and you can’t nd any words to put down on paper because that part of your brain is empty. It would be better yes much better to be a butcher.’ Steward, in turn, read and almost lost the manuscript of the second volume of Everybody’s Autobiography. More successful was his gi of a food mixer, proving that nothing was beyond Stein’s inimitable style: ‘Oh so beautiful is the Mix Master, so beautiful and the literature [the directions for use] so beautiful and the shoe button potatoes that same day so beautiful and everything so beautiful.’ Once Stein asked him: ‘Do you think Alice and I are lesbians?’ Steward was happy to declare himself what Stein called ‘queer or gay or dierent or “of it” as the French say’, but Stein never answered her own question. For Steward this was a sign of a generation gap: she, like Douglas, Gide and Mann, was ‘really Victorian’ and ‘more than a little reserved’ in terms of sexual identity as well as about sex itself. Steward had arrived in Bilignin reeking of Pernod; aer the shock of seeing Stein naked one night he calmed himself with the emergency cognac he always carried; he notes in passing that he was half-drunk when he climbed into bed with Wilder ‘as I had to be in those days to have an encounter’. He was probably already an alcoholic when Prohibition ended in 1933: Ohio was well supplied with bathtub gin, as well as gelatin capsules to coat the throat and make it drinkable. His intake increased during his years as an instructor of English to West Virginia farmhands and Montana cowboys. Steward blamed his drinking on the loneliness of the precariously employed academic. He relied on daily injections of vitamin B12 to get by when he returned to Chicago in 1936 to teach at Loyola and then at DePaul University. Getting through a standard academic teaching day while drinking a quart of whisky, as well as shots en route to class, would be perversely admirable even if he hadn’t also been mastering a range of classes that would make the specialists of today turn to drink: 25 new courses in two years on topics from Anglo-Saxon grammar to the modern novel, as well as courses in bibliography, linguistics and French.